“I mentioned before the similarities between the Church and the Chantry. Both had their beginnings among the nomadic precursors of each world’s human civilizations. Both had female figures who received extraordinary revelations (Mereldar and Andraste). There are many more similarities, suspiciously so, yet there are differences. While Mereldar’s revelations were seen as but most prominent among many revelations of the Light’s presence, Andraste, was seen as the sole bearer of truth. The Church also never had a singular threat. Humans on Azeroth had to contend with all manner of foes ranging from the disparate troll empires, dwarves, spirits, demons, and all manner of creatures and hostile wildlife. On Thedas, in the absence of external foes, humanity’s greatest threat appears to have been itself. This is evident from the very beginning of the Chantry which I shall expand upon now…

From the Journal of Eratus Riverwood

“Knight-Lieutenant Riverwood, I have detected a lapse in your attention.”

“Huh. What…”

I jolted, accidentally shifting against the people sitting to my left and right. They shot me annoyed glances.

We were seated, crammed really, like merchants at an auction house during rush hour. There was an unsavory odor from the pressed bodies, only further confirming my suspicion that the concept of personal hygiene had never fully taken off in this world. I could feel the dust settling on my skin causing the whiskers above my lip and my increasingly unkempt hair to prickle with irritation. I was half-tempted to just hack it all off with a blade, scrapes and cuts be damned.

I wondered if there was a barber of some sort in the city. I cared less about looking stylish, most of the people in the crowd had hair far too long for my tastes. I just needed to trim it down to size so that it stopped itching.

On that note, the itching from my clothes was back in full force. I promised myself that today was going to be the last day I wore the damn tunic before I shredded it up into spare bandages. On top of that, I could barely move, and was starting to lose feeling in my legs. Although I left my sword and armor back at the tavern, they were in the forefront in my mind. It was the first time since I escaped the forest that I didn’t have the weapon. I missed the peace of mind of having it nearby.

I didn’t bring it because it was apparent that the Chantry’s denizens would be less than pleased to have it present in the building. The only thing to comfort me was the soft voice of Chantry Mother Perpetua who stood on a platform at the other end of the building. She began to recite once more from a large book to the crowd.

Blessed are they who stand before. The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter.

Blessed are the Makers children. For they shall inherit the earth.

Blessed are the peacekeepers. Champions of the Just.

I recalled from her earlier statement that the verses were taken from a chapter that was titled the Canticle of Benedictions. In one sense I understood the need for the repetitive phrasing. The language was similar to the revelations of Mereldar from the tome of divinity. Words meant to inspire thoughtfulness.

Unfortunately, the mind-numbing ramble also inflicted headaches. Unlike then, I had no opportunity to skim through the section. Instead, I had to listen as the speaker took her time, as if there was something praiseworthy that could be transmitted by emphasizing every syllable, every period, and every pause.

Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow.

Blessed is the one who trusts in the Maker, whose confidence is in him.

Blessed are those who keep his statutes and seek him with all their heart.

And here I thought a silverleaf draught was a powerful way to induce sleep. Mother Perpetua’s voice proved otherwise. It was as equally soothing to my ears as a lullaby as a mother’s voice to a child. With the same effect on the listener, based on the number of dozing heads throughout the crowd. There were even a few people to my left who had their eyes closed, and it didn’t seem like they were praying.

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall find their work rewarded

Blessed is the one who is persecuted for the sake of good, for they shall rest in the Golden City.

Blessed are those who weep, who mourn. For they shall joy in the Maker.

I was going to pass out again if I continued listening. There wasn’t any more useful information to be gleamed from what she was saying. Instead, I looked around the building.

The Chantry was an open space with two floors. Besides the crowd, pairs of young men and women walked among the floors robed in red and white. They carried themselves with an air of restraint and purpose, reminding me of my own time as a young initiate of the Church. I believe they were referred to as Brothers and Sisters. The elders were Mothers, which I took to be the equivalent of priests and bishops. However, there were no Fathers, or male equivalent, which was interesting to note. There were a few templars as well, mainly standing guard around a select few doors, but I was not concerned. My presence hadn’t seemed to disturb them, at least not yet.

There was something eerie about the place, something that put me at unease.

I continued looking, trying to pinpoint the source. When I was outside, the building’s pyramid-shaped roof distinguished it from all the others in the city. Inside, ornaments and figures of religious importance permeated the open spaces. Standing along corners, hanging from walls, looking down from the sloped ceiling. Light streamed through stained-glass windows, basking everyone in the glory of the icons. Candles were lit from numerous braziers, eliminating darkness in the open room.

Then it came to me that it wasn’t the furniture but the color. Nearly everything was red, white, or gold. The colors of the Scarlet Order.

It dredged up something ugly from the depths of my mind, things I chose not to dwell on, so I let it fade, instead turning toward the most impressive icon of all. It was a statue of a woman, that was behind Mother Perpetua. It rose from the ground, to the second floor, and all the way up to the ceiling. She was garbed in a warrior’s skirt. Her back was arched straight in confidence and composure. The head was adorned with a golden halo in a symbol of superiority. Her gaze was dipped down to the denizens below, like a shepherd watching over their flock, or a mother watching over her children, or a queen watching over her subjects.

It was similar in sensation to walking among the stone figurines of the heroes of the Second War. They stood in front of the Stormwind gates, a reminder of the sacrifice they made to defeat the Horde. Turalyon, Khadgar, Alleria, Danath, Kurdran.

None of these heroes however, nor anyone in my own history, had demanded the level of worship of this imposing woman.

I took a closer look at her statue. One of her hands held a sword with its blade tipped down, while the other was raised with the palms flat against an invisible wall. A gesture I understood from the locals to symbolize peace. A contrasting duality that well summarized the life of the prophet Andraste.

I was aware of her tale, through the earlier sermons, which proved to be less dull than the current one. Her story was enshrined by eight glass murals behind the statue on the second floor.

The first mural depicted three men, mages of the Tevinter Imperium, drawing blood from a body. They looked up to the heavens to a city among the clouds. The Golden City of the Maker. By the Chantry’s story, these mages intended to use power drawn from their victims to reach to enter the city and usurp the Maker’s throne. The same magic used by the mage in the forest, who used her own lifeforce to bring forth a demon and kill the templars out of vengeance. Blood magic.

The result of their actions was depicted by the same mural at the bottom of the mural. Blood twisted the city, turning it from gold to black. As Mother Perpetua had recited.

And so is the golden city blackened.

With each step you take in my hall.

Marvel at my perfection, for it is fleeting.

You have brought sin to Heaven.

And doom upon all the world.”

This corruption, or the taint as the Chantry called it, persisted and was brought back to the world by the cast-out magisters. The first of a race of creatures known as the Darkspawn.

It wasn’t too far-fetched. I knew of enough similar stories from the course of our own history. Tales of priests that were twisted into shadow aberrations from seeking powers beyond their light-given gifts. Mages slaughtered by accidentally summoning fel demons of the Twisting Nether. Kul’Tiran sailors leading their ships to doom while enraptured by beautiful voices from the depths of the sea. It wasn’t unique to mankind either. The Dark Iron Dwarves sought elemental power to defeat their brethren then wound up enslaving themselves to the Firelord Ragnoros. High Elven mythology supposedly depicted of a global sundering that took a millennium prior due to a cursed deal with some otherworldly being. There were countless more examples of the downfall of mortals brought by greed and vanity.

The next mural was of Andraste herself, sheathed in the Maker’s light, bringing redemption to the world. Thereafter she became the conduit for the redemption of mankind in the eyes of the Maker, and thus she set the foundations of what would become the Chantry. I found it to be fascinatingly like the story of Mereldar, one of the first priestesses of the Church, who saw visions of the Light among the Arathi Highlands.

The following murals depicted the struggle of Andraste’s fledgling movement against the Tevinter Imperium. The unification of scattered human tribes. The revolts of the slaves. The inclusion of the elven hero Shartan and his kind. I still found the state of the elves here to be befuddling. Something happened which led them to their current state though I knew not what.

The story continued onward, detailing the rising tide against the Tevinter Imperium. In the end it was again the hubris of man that would lead Andraste’s earthly husband to betray her to the Magisters. From there, she suffered, was executed by the leader of the Tevinter Imperium, Archon Hesserian, and ascended to the Maker’s side.

A bit anti-climactic for my taste, but enough given I knew next to nothing of this world. All this would lead to the Chantry’s growth into the dominant force of the world, uniting the disparate kingdoms of man into one to include the remnants of the Imperium. It did much to explain why things the way they were, and why mages in particular were treated the way they were, especially after centuries of rearing and treating others like cattle for slaughter.

The rest of it, of entities such as this Golden City or even the Maker, I wasn’t too sure about. At first thought, the Maker seemed like a visage of the Light, although the Chantry’s account of him seemed to discount that. His portrayal was more akin to the wild gods of the troll empires than an entity such as the Light.

The Light knew not vengeance nor sought to be worshipped. It was a force of nature that represented everything good in its primal form. It was a tangible and concrete. Even the Lorekeeper, an ancient automaton that had existed for who-knows-how-long acknowledged its existence. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling the core of Light flux within. It was an entity that one could feel, quite unlike this elusive of the Maker whose presence was questionable.

The sermon raised far more questions than it did in providing answers, however I had the information that I needed. It was obvious now in hindsight that the Maker’s wife in Flemeth’s puzzle was Andraste.

Now all I had to was find this “home” that she was supposedly in. From Flemeth’s own words it was somewhere in the city. However, Denerim was a large place.

“This concludes the sermon of today’s vigil,” said Mother Perpetua. “Blessed be the Maker.”

“Blessed be the Maker,” the crowd recited.

Everyone began to shuffle out of the stools. I stood up as well, stretching out my limbs.

The majority of the congregation flocked out through the main floor to the doors. I however took a separate path. On the second floor, I had caught a glimpse of several shelves stocked with books. If there was any knowledge of finding Andraste’s home it was likely to be there. I didn’t have the time nor the ability to explore every home in the city without more information.

I traced a path to the library to a single staircase that led to the first floor. There was a Chantry sister sitting at desk by the entrance.

Like the others, she was young and had her hair done up in a neat bun. She wore no jewelry, and her clothes were framed to hide her feminine features. For good reason too, although I had a feeling it would do little to stifle anything. One of the Chantry brothers walked by, and I saw her eyes follow in his wake.

It was no different than what I saw in the Church and the Alliance military. Put young women and men together and things happened.

Then she noticed my approach then stood up to bow. Her expression betrayed tiredness. I guess this wasn’t the first time she had to greet someone, and this most like wasn’t the last.

“Blessings to you stranger,” she said. “I am Sister Rivera. How may I be of service today?”

“Hello,” I replied. “Is there a library up there?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What sort of books do you have on the shelves?”

“Historical Tales. Old journals. Records of Address. Such and such.” There was a subtle shift in her expression that asked “And why would you want to know?”

“Do you mind if I take a look?”

“I am sorry, but only Chantry servicemembers and distinguished guests permitted on the second floor.”

Damn.

“So… what do I need to be a distinguished guest?”

“One will need to provide proof of service.”

“And how would I acquire that?”

“One needs to prove themselves through a feat, though a monetary contribution would be sufficient.”

“And how… much would be a sufficient sum?”

“Although, the Chantry is appreciative of any tithe, greater recognition is bestowed upon greater quantities. A donation of at least 500 silver or 5 gold would be sufficient.”

I gaped. We stood there, the only sound being footsteps and people as they shuffled out the Chantry.

“I… apologize, but it is the way things are.”

“No, its… I understand.”

The sum was outrageous. However, if it was common-practice it certainly explained how the Chantry was able to afford all the decorations it had.

Then I was reminded of something. Something I did a few times at the Church, namely to work my way through the priests to sneak out the Cathedral.

“I just found the Mother’s sermon to be inspiring,” I continued. “I was hoping to learn more about Andraste herself you see. Her description of the despair she felt for her people touched me deeply. What did she say… Blade to shackle-bearer, valiant of spirit. Blazing like star-shine, to battle they charged.

The moment I began to recite the verse, the sister’s eyes widened in enthusiasm. So much so that she interrupted, “None to return to the land of their mothers. By cruel magic taken, ice, lightning, and flame. Sorry! I didn’t mean to interrupt. That is one of my favorite passages.”

It looked like the Chantry denizens cared about doctrine and theology as much as the Church.

No worries Sister Rivera. I did not take offense. Andraste truly is an amazing woman. Oh, how I wept when she begged the Maker to grant us a second chance. We have forgotten, in ignorance stumbling. Only a Light in this darken’d time breaks.”

The Sister completed the verse. “Call to your children, teach us your greatness. What has been forgotten has not yet been lost. I agree. Andraste was a woman ahead of her time. You are rather well-versed in the Canticles.”

I flashed the best boyish smile I could muster. “Well, I was always told I had a knack for memory.”

“I am glad to hear so. It is rare to find commoners who appreciate the scope of her work.”

“True, alas I wish to learn and fix more of her words, but for now it seems beyond my reach.” I looked up the stairs.

“I am touched by your desire.” She looked up the stairs then back at me. “I…I really shouldn’t let you past but I think….”

There were the hard clanks of metal against stone as a figure in gleaming armor stepped next to us.

“What is going on here?” he said, crossing his arms and glaring at me. It was a templar, a Knight-Captain judging by the sash around his waist.

“Ser Rodrick!” Sister Rivera said, then bowed.

“Is this vagrant giving you any trouble Sister Rivera?” he said.

“No!” she replied. “We were just enjoying some time that’s all.”

The man just stood there, looking daggers at my eyes. I just stood there, trying to look as innocent as possible. Despite the scowl, there was something familiar about his face that tugged at my memory.

“I should warn you that only distinguished guests are allowed to the second floor,” he said. Although he was looking at me, it seemed like the warning was directed at the two of us.

“If you have no other business,” he continued. “You best be on your way.”

The man stormed off.

“Um… sorry about that,” Sister Rivera said. “He is one of the Knight-Captains of the garrison here. He… hasn’t been in the best mood.”

“No, it’s alright. I haven’t had the best interactions with the templars as of late.”

“They aren’t all bad people, though a little gruff at times. Please forgive his behavior. He lost his brother on an expedition not too long ago.”

That jolted my memory.

“Not to intrude but, how long ago was this expedition?”

“About a few weeks ago. I don’t know much but his brother had just been knighted. They went into the Brecillian Forest to retrieve an apostate. They never returned. When the search party found them, it was…” She shuddered. “Well, it was a gruesome sight.”

“I can understand that. It sounds horrible.”

“Is it not? Apparently, there were signs someone looted all the bodies afterwards. Who could do such a thing! Stealing from the dead, let alone templars. The nerve of people nowadays.”

“Oh, I agree.”

“Apparently, it must have been another apostate because all the lyrium was stolen. Ser Rodrick has made a holy vow to hunt him down.”

“Well, I hope he finds this apostate.”

“As do I. We are lucky to have strong defenders to watch over us like him. Anyhow, I’m sorry but you should probably get going.”

“I understand. Thank you for your time Sister Rivera.”

“And you too. May the Maker’s peace be with you.”

I left the Chantry in a hurry. There wasn’t a way for them to trace that mess all the way back to me in Denerim. At least I was sure of it. Still, I wasn’t about to tempt fate. The world as I knew worked in mysterious ways, Maker or no Maker.

I turned my attention to calculating how much effort I was going to have to put in for 500 silver coins. If I played it safe, it would roughly take five months of working mundane jobs like the bakery. Even some of the well-payed jobs only cashed out at 100 silvers, and those were either dangerous or took just as much time. Time that I did not have.

The Chantry was only open to the public for the vigil, which lasted a month. How in the twisting nether was I supposed to come up with that much coin in a month?

Then a few familiar voices came across through the noise of the marketplace.

“Miss Bryland, please. I implore you to abandon this outrageous scheme.”

“Not another word. And be careful with that package. It’s worth more than you’ll ever make in ten years.”

“Please! Your father is bound to find out!”

“Not. Another. Word. And you best pray father does not find out, or else I’ll have you sent to work the kitchens for the rest of your life.”

Habren Bryland, wearing a bright purple outfit, walked in front of me with her arms crossed and head pointed high. I realized that I had not seen her at all in the Chantry, and she most certainly hadn’t joined in the vigil.

Her retainer walked behind, trying to balance several rolls of cloth. Her expression was miserable, far more than when she was at the bakery.

Well, it seemed like I wasn’t the only one not having a good day. I continued walking back to the tavern, trying to think up a solution.